You Set My Soul Alight
by Shaitanah
Summary: During the battle between Harry and Voldemort a curse backfires and takes them to some isolated room which they can’t get out of. Voldemort/Harry SLASH. Please R&R!
1. Another Brick In The Wall

**Title**: "You Set My Soul Alight"

**Author**: Shaitanah

**Rating**: R

**Timeline**: post-HBP

**Summary**: During the battle between Harry and Voldemort a curse backfires and takes them to some isolated room which they can't get out of. Sounds banal, I know, but give it a try! Might be a hint of slash later. Please R&R!

**Disclaimer**: _Harry Potter _belongs to J. K. Rowling… unfortunately! ;) I wouldn't mind owning Voldie! The name for the fic comes from a song by _Muse_, the name for the chapter comes from a song by _Pink Floyd_.

**A/N**: I've been working on this story for a long time. It didn't turn out the way I wanted it but it's fairly alright, so enjoy! Reviews would be very appreciated.

**YOU SET MY SOUL ALIGHT**

**Chapter 1**

**ANOTHER BRICK IN THE WALL**

The first thing Harry saw when he came to his senses was a pair of glimmering red eyes, huge as stars, preventing him from seeing anything else. It was like a delusion. Harry thought he had never seen anything so beautiful, so expressive and so scary. And then he recognized the owner of these eyes.

He shot his hand out so rapidly that his wand very nearly took Voldemort's eye out. The Dark Lord stumbled backwards and hissed something inaudible. Harry sprang up on his feet, his breath harsh and shaky, and kept staring at his enemy with eyes wide open. The situation began to seem pretty silly. Nobody tried to speak. None of them moved. Finally Voldemort broke the awkward silence:

"Honestly, Potter! I had noticed you are very ill-mannered last time we met but this–".

"What do you want me to say?" Harry snapped. "Hi?"

The Dark Lord chuckled quietly and walked about the room. Harry followed him with his tired yet attentive eyes. When the Dark Lord was completely out of sight, he took a brief moment to examine the place itself. It was a dark, dusty room, apparently to Voldemort's liking for Harry heard the Dark Lord murmur something like: "At least, they have taste". Harry wondered how long he'd been unconscious – and helpless at Voldemort's mercy! The thought sickened him. He ran after the older wizard and blurted out:

"What is this place? Some of your secret torture-hideouts?"

"Not mine".

Harry felt too tired to ask more questions all of a sudden. He leaned against the wall and shut his eyes for a moment. It started coming back then. The war. The meetings with the order, plans, strategies. The final battle. Harry turned his tear-stained face away from many of those who fell. Green fire all over. Voldemort's predatory smirk. Cruciatus – and Harry lost his balance, and fell down on his knees, he felt like vomiting his guts out, and crying, and then he cast Avada Kedavra on Voldemort and missed…

And after that some vast, cold abyss opened its embrace and welcomed Harry. He swinged in it, and he fell, and he fell, and he just carried on falling…

Harry looked at the Dark Lord who was obscured by thick shadows flowing down from the walls like waterfalls of darkness. His bloodshot eyes were fixed on the boy.

"I guess I'm lucky again", Harry murmured wearily. He didn't really care but he asked, nevertheless: "How did it happen?"

Voldemort shrugged. "My curse… My Killing Curse must have backfired somehow. You're asking the wrong question. It is not how it happened that is important. But it is how we get out of here!"

"Err… 'kay. Got any ideas?"

Harry clutched the wand tighter. The enemy didn't seem to move – didn't even seem to _want_ to move – but hey, precaution could save lives! At this, Voldemort suddenly laughed.

"Your magic won't help you now, Potter! I had plenty of time before you decided to remain in the world of the living. I tested every incantation known to me. And believe me, that is a lot".

Harry's head began to ache. He made a few deep, harsh breaths and sank down to the floor. He stuck his head between his knees and prayed he wouldn't throw up. Must be concussion. Shit! Shit! Double shit, come to think of it. Being alone with Voldemort was horrible beyond any nightmares. Being sick with Voldemort was just… indescribably horrible!

Harry wanted to know how long he'd been unconscious. But he was afraid to ask. Even a possibility of starting a conversation with Voldemort frightened him. He hoped it wasn't all too noticeable.

Hours passed in silence. Every time one of them moved, he had to deal with suspicious intensity of the other's gaze following him closely. Voldemort attracted Harry's attention more frequently since he'd found some charcoal and used it to draw weird lines on the dusty floorboards. The boy's curiousity intensified but he didn't dare ask what the purpose of all that was. The man seemed very busy. Feeling sick and cold, in desperate need of attention and also to keep himself from falling asleep, Harry finally mumbled:

"S-so… you cast Avada Kedavra on me?"

"Was it the first time?" The Dark Lord didn't even bother to lift his head. To Potter's amazement, his voice sounded soft and somehow warm. All its coldness had been drained from the tone.

Harry gave himself a mental slap on the back of his head. Soon he'd actually begin to like the villain.

"And it backfired. So basically it's your fault we're stuck here".

The Dark Lord looked up abruptly. His eyes became narrow slits full of anger. "Yes, it's my twisted idea of summer vacation, you know!"

Harry hunched his shoulders a little to make himself look less significant. He searched his soul for any emotions but there were none. As if his feelings had been frozen. He didn't care anymore. Something good, something bad, Ginny, and Hermione, and Ron – everything was blurry, a relentless dream of no importance. Harry saw things for what they were now. Voldemort was a maniac who intended to kill him. But Harry kind of liked being locked up with him. It served them both right.

"Why aren't you trying to kill me?" he asked.

"Do you want me to?" The Dark Lord's lips curved into a hideous smile. Harry's shoulders tensed. He wrapped his fingers around the wand again, just in case. "Isn't it obvious? My knowledge is not enough to get me out of here. Perhaps you could be of use".

The Dark Lord kept on working on his sketches. Harry lost track of time. His thoughts trailed off on something that seemed so unimportant now. The start of his final year. He wasn't going to come back to Hogwarts, but he kind of missed school now. It was never safe there but at least, he had never been alone with Voldemort before (except for his younger self, of course). That pushed Harry to the dangerous edge of dreams and reflections on Tom Riddle. How many nights after 'additional studies' with Dumbledore had he lain in his bed in silence, wondering what had driven a handsome, powerful youngster to become a monster that Voldemort was!

The Dark Lord stared at Harry intently. The youth shuddered as he noticed his gaze. He protruded his lips to form a question but he decided to abstain from that. Voldemort looked down. The subject was closed without having been started.

"What are you doing?" Harry asked, pretending to be annoyed with the sound: the piece of black chalk screeched unpleasantly as it connected with the floor-boards.

"Honestly, Potter, you _are_ very much like your father!"

Harry swallowed, cold sweat dripping along the back of his neck. He clenched his teeth, and a low rumbling growl rose in his throat. He hated it when people reminded him of James. James was dead. Dead, dead, dead!

_You're so much like your father. Except for the eyes. They are your mother's eyes_. Sirius, Lupin, hell – everyone! Everyone had been so _kind_ to remind him of that. But Harry had never known his parents. He was deprived of that privilege. He couldn't look into his mother's charming eyes and compare their color with his own. He couldn't stand before James and see the exact copy of himself, the one that everybody marveled. All that he had was a few old photographs and a rather disappointing image of his father borrowed from Snape's Pensieve.

"Never speak of him again!" Harry hissed.

The Dark Lord (_No, time to stop calling him that. First of all, it was a pathetic, groveling Death Eaters' manner, and second of all, the man Harry was looking at was nothing more that a man, stripped of a horrid myth he had worked so hard to dress himself into_.) skewed his eyes upon the boy. He looked vaguely amused by his reaction. Honestly, was it really so easy to sting him?

"Why is that so?"

"You have no right! _You_ – have – no – right!" And suddenly Harry burst into tears. He couldn't understand what was wrong. He had been in far worse situations before.

He laughed and cried at the same time. He must have lost his mind. Tears bit his cheeks and tasted like blood, he gulped forcefully and went back to crying. He suppressed an animalistic desire to scream, to roar and express all his pain. His throat was on fire. He wheezed and, having found the sound incredibly funny, almost choked with laughter.

Finally he felt sort of strange relief.

Voldemort cast him a cool glance. "Is that it? Then, I suggest, we think about our way out".

"I hate you", Harry said wearily.

"I know". The simplicity of that statement touched Harry. After all, everything between them had always been so artless, so black-and-white. Harry's hate bred from his childhood tragedy plus Voldemort's appetite for destruction.

Harry smiled.

"What can I do, then?" he asked.

Voldemort beckoned the boy to join him by the sketch. It turned out to be a huge, elaborate pentagram, very advanced magic. In utter silence Harry followed Voldemort as he traced the outlines of the symbol with his paper-white fingers and tried to memorize all the difficult words Voldemort pronounced. They lay in heavy layer inside his mind, but all in all, he felt empty, and brainless, and dull. 'He'd make a fine teacher', a thought came. Harry wondered why Dumbledore hadn't given him a job, after all. Was it mutual aversion? Was it some twisted motif of his? It didn't matter now. Professor Dumbledore was gone, just like Sirius, like his parents, like thousands of Voldemort's victims. Dissolved into nothing.

Harry got up and moved backward, fixing his eyes firmly on the Dark Lord. The spell was yet to be finished. Harry sat down and began to work on his part of the mosaic.

Voldemort chuckled.

"Right, Potter. Don't turn your back on me".

The boy ignored the taunt. Cold, placid feeling spread in his chest, encircled his heart and he allowed himself to bathe in it. He dipped into its safety. He wouldn't let emotions blind him from his goal.


	2. Don't Turn Your Back On Fear

**Title**: "You Set My Soul Alight"

**Author**: Shaitanah

**Rating**: R

**Timeline**: post-HBP

**Summary**: During the battle between Harry and Voldemort a curse backfires and takes them to some isolated room which they can't get out of. Please R&R!

**Disclaimer**: _Harry Potter _belongs to J. K. Rowling… unfortunately! ;) I wouldn't mind owning Voldie! The name for the chapter comes from a song by _The 69 Eyes_.

**A/N**: Thank you a million times to those who reviewed! BTW, I found a way to enable anonymous reviews, that's a hint! ;) Honestly people, you rock! I really love your reviews, they keep me writing!

**Chapter 2**

**DON'T TURN YOUR BACK ON FEAR**

With each passing hour the pentagram grew wider, its intricate web swallowed more and more space on the dusty floor. Harry scrubbed the floor-boards fiercely, drew the lines, pressing on the chalk so hard it would almost crumble. Sometimes he took time to rest. They didn't engage in any conversation any more, so Harry either watched his adversary in silence, or dozed, awakening with an angry look in his eyes.

Voldemort looked stern but underneath, Harry could tell, he was exhausted. How many spells had he recited before Harry woke up? How many plans had raced through his wicked mind? In some sense it felt useful to be trapped with him. He, of all people, definitely knew a great deal about such things.

But Harry expected the worst. His wand lay by his side so that he could grab it any time. He followed each movement of his companion with an attentive eye. The fact that Voldemort appeared to make no nasty plans concerning him kept Harry all the more on the alert.

The incantation was ancient magic. Two or more powerful wands ought to collaborate in order to conjure a force-field that would teleport their owners out of any blocked lodging.

Finally both pentagrams were done and connected with a thick puncture line. The wizards took their places inside each pentacle and sealed them. Wands at the ready, they faced each other with steady determination.

"What if it doesn't work?" Harry wanted to know. Voldemort sighed and said something that nearly caused Harry to burst into hysterical laughter again:

"Then we're _screwed_".

"I should have made you cast the Unbreakable Vow to make sure you wouldn't try to kill me during the ritual", Harry commented.

It was Voldemort's turn to chuckle. The sound sent unnerving tingles down Potter's spine: it was both mild and insidious.

They spoke the words together. At first it seemed that nothing was about to happen. Then a tormenting wave of heat crushed over them, sending them into a whirpool of electricity. Shocked, Harry gasped for air, but overwhelming fire devoured him and he passed out.

Water fell on the ground, producing strange, sweet, sucking noises. Tiny bombs of light flashed under Harry's closed eye-lids. He tried to move but it hurt immensely. A fuzzy feeling in his stomach brought him back to reality. His first intelligent thought was: 'I'm alive!' – which was more of a question, actually.

The boy opened his eyes and looked around. Voldemort's body, seemingly lifeless, lay full length beside a shimmering wall of pinkish force-field that formed instead of one wall. It blurred the scenery behind it but Harry could feel warm wind blowing from the outside. Something stirred in an organic rhythm, following its lead, and rustled quietly. Grass. Could it really be grass? Harry leaned into the blinding pink, careful not to touch it. Grazing fields.

He took a deep breath and returned to Voldemort. The wizard was breathing, Harry estimated it according to the way his chest moved. Slowly he raised his wand and pointed it at the Dark Lord. Helpless. Unconscious. It was unworthy, yes, but Harry knew that there was no other way he could possibly defeat his arch-nemesis.

His inner voice told him this was probably the most foolish thing to do right now. 'How will you find your way home without him?' Still, Harry hesitated. Infinity _with_ or _without_ Voldemort – big difference!

He held his wand firmly. His lips moved to form the words: "Avada…" _No_. Try again. A huge lump in his throat prevented him from speaking the curse. He breathed in frenziedly, put his wand up and dragged the lifeless wizard to the back wall. He noticed earlier some block that he now used as a pillow.

In time Voldemort's breathing became more even like that of a sleeping man. Bored beyond measure, Harry caught himself regarding him closely. In truth, the Dark Lord wasn't that ugly. His snakelike features, smooth and somehow grotesque, were intimidating, yes, but not _ugly_. He looked utterly ageless and resembled a modernist statue (as if an artist aimed to find something in between a man and a beast). You could never guess the man had lived far beyond the age of seventy. Harry saw bitter irony in all that: after all, snakes were the only creatures Tom Riddle had ever put his trust in.

His body, sleek and plastic, was well-built, muscular underneath the plain black robe. For a moment Harry thought he understood where Snape had found his 'forever-mourning' style.

Harry closed his eyes and tried not to think about all those circumstances that had come together to turn a handsome boy into the Basilisk's junior brother.

Voldemort awoke with a start and shot upwards. His blood-red eyes examined the room and the Dark Lord battled a secret bout of despair: he was still trapped there – with _the boy_! He slid his hand into the dust but found no sign of his weapon. 'Damn the boy!'

He narrowed his eyes as he saw Potter's ghostly shape hovering by the flatness of something pink. The boy walked in circles, leaning in and out of a hot, caramel-like space, and every time he stretched his hand out to make a contact, it hissed back at him like an untamed snake. Voldemort snorted at the argumentative beauty of the sight.

The sound brought Potter's attention to him.

"How long have I been–?" the Dark Lord asked.

"About two hours".

Voldemort knitted his eye-brows. Two hours. And the Potter boy hadn't tried anything… hasty? foolish? treacherous? Potter obviously paid attention to his surprise but pretended to be ignorant of it. He wanted to know what had gone wrong.

Voldemort examined the pinkish force-field. His heart fluttered with excitement at the sound of wind. Beautiful meadows out there, soft, spice-smelling herbs, open pools of water sparkling in the sunlight.

"What the hell happened?" Potter's voice broke into his thoughts.

Granted they'd been there for about nine hours, Voldemort didn't feel so bad. He leaned against the safe wall because his knees started to shake. There was annoying ringing in his ears, a condition similar to the one he'd been in when he'd just acquired this new body, in general.

The spell had generated a force-field that managed to damage the foundation of the room but sweet freedom still remained disturbingly far. The Dark Lord's practical mind kept working feverishly.

"Do we have Plan B?" Potter asked with caution. The answer came in a form of a doubtful nod.

"You have my wand, don't you?"

Harry shifted uncomfortably under his studious gaze. The situation was, in the end, pretty awkward: loads of times Voldemort possessed Harry's wand and now luck turned its back on the older wizard.

Voldemort repeated the question in an icy voice. Harry couldn't help but utter a weak 'yeah'.

"I want it back, you know", pressed Voldemort and ended up standing very close to the boy. Their bodies almost touched.

Harry stepped back, looking playful as a kitten. His whole looks were saying: _You want it, you get it!_

The older wizard lunged forward, his hand gripped thin air. Performing an odd dancing move, Harry encircled him, grinning widely. A sarcastic yet dangerous smile blossomed on Voldemort's face. He glided swiftly around the boy until he was behind him. Harry whirled around and could barely leap away. The game was beginning to unnerve him.

"You are very close to making me angry, Harry", Voldemort whispered maliciously. "Do you remember the motto of your precious School of Witchcraft and Wizardry? 'Never tickle a sleeping dragon'. Well, I am a dragon, Harry. Believe me, you don't want me mad at you… _here_".

The boy smirked and continued his _pax_.

Suddenly the Dark Lord showed up too close. Harry tried to draw back but the wizard clutched his arm and nearly turned it out under a different angle. Pain shot through Harry's foreshoulder. He bit his tongue because he didn't want to howl in front of Voldemort.

"Okay-okay, release me! I'll give you back your bloody wand. But…" the boy paused, reluctant to go on, "you wouldn't like it".

Once free, the boy reached inside his pocket and took out the wand – brutally snapped in two. A hint of distress glistened in the red eyes of his enemy.

Voldemort knew it could be fixed. Moreover, he _could_ fix it even here, with no help of special tools. But nothing in his face betrayed any hope. Let the boy think the loss of the wand affected him in a painful way.

Harry folded his fingers over the pieces of the wand protectively. And the Dark Lord let him keep it. 'All in good time', he thought grimly.

The absence of food and water began making itself known. Harry sat down, dragged his knees up to his chin and hugged them. His stomach was making wet noises all the time and his parched lips were burning. He felt dizzy.

"We could do something more productive than doing nothing at all", he suggested, wishing to chase away the hunger.

"With pleasure. Like what?"

"Well… we could talk". When Voldemort didn't protest, Harry asked shyly: "You knew my father well enough? A few hours back you said I was just like him–".

"Remarkably". Voldemort rose and walked up to the force-field. It buzzed softly as he drew near. "James Potter was a fool. I gave him a choice and he chose the wrong side. And for whose sake? Mine, only mine. His death weakened the order, I'll have you know. Your precious Dumbledore was rather distraught. And you, my dear Harry", Voldemort's eyes flashed red as he turned to regard Harry with a piercing look. "I gave you the same choice in your first year, remember?"

"You won't let me forget", Potter muttered.

"No matter what, I think it's a pity your father had been such a coward", Voldemort added casually. "He would have made a decent Death Eater".

Harry rushed forward and pushed the man to the ground. The move was completely unexpected, that's why Voldemort had no time to resist.

"Don't you dare talk about my father like that!" Harry roared. "He was a wonderful man! He was a thousand times worth your bloody boot-lickers!"

He hit Voldemort hard, pouring out his hate in a series of furious blows. It caused the wizard to laugh and Harry hated him even more, biting his lips. His head pounded. A loud thud followed each blow as if Voldemort's chest was carved from stone. Finally Harry stopped, shivering. Aware of that he was actually sitting on top of Voldemort, pinning him to the ground, Harry panted and, to his dismay, his cheeks flushed.

Voldemort drilled him with a suggestive gaze.

Potter lowered his head and got off of him.

"You aren't afraid to turn your back on me any more, are you?" scoffed Voldemort.

"I saw you almost dead. And I know you need me", Harry threw over his shoulder. "I'm not afraid of you at all".


	3. A Glimpse Of A Riddle

**Title**: "You Set My Soul Alight"

**Author**: Shaitanah

**Rating**: R

**Timeline**: post-HBP

**Summary**: During the battle between Harry and Voldemort a curse backfires and takes them to some isolated room which they can't get out of. Please R&R!

**Disclaimer**: Not mine, we already know that.

**A/N**: Thank you, thank you, thank you! For your wonderful reviews! I'm terribly sorry that I couldn't answer some of you but I have severe problems with my PC. It's really going nuts.

**Chapter 3**

**A GLIMPSE OF A RIDDLE**

_You want to be as much u n l i k e James Potter as possible. You loathe yourself for not being him but – fuck him! – he was an impudent bastard and nothing more! Over and over again you try to picture him as a hero but there is something about that memory in Snape's Pensieve that makes you despise him. What is it? You strain your memory, you try to comprehend it but every time you get close to the meaning, it slips away._

_Then you realize that young James reminds you strongly of someone you've known very well for six years. Draco. An insolent git that drags his gang along and likes to bully the weakest._

_You are disgusted but not with James, but yourself. You don't really know why._

_You feel so alone. And you are alone. Those cute little friends of yours, they will never understand you._

_I will._

_You want to survive – not just because you're quite fond of living but because your father died and if you die now, they will remember you as the dead son of James Potter, slain by my own hand. Oh, I'd dream of it!_

_Suddenly I realize that I don't hate you at all. You're empty. You're nothing. Like father like son, Harry._

_But it shouldn't end this way. Not here. We shouldn't die together of thirst, or hunger, or some unknown disease that we might accidentally conjure in feeble attempts to save ourselves! I've dreamt of an epic battle, and you, my white knight, shall shed your blood on the grave of your parents. I want to see the light leave your eyes, those beautiful eyes as green as a flash of the Killing Curse. But not here, not now._

_How come we both have father issues? Pathetic, don't you think? I used to hate my father too. Not any more, of course, since he's long absent from this world._

_I think we understand each other better now. No worries, then? Good.

* * *

_

Harry woke up and yawned. It was supposedly the middle of the night. If Harry skewed his eyes, he could barely see the stars.

Pink shadows glided over Voldemort's face as he sat beside the wall. Harry gasped: for a moment he thought he hand seen the handsome, long gone face of Tom Riddle. Perhaps a man named Riddle still dwelt inside the Dark Lord, villainous but not evil.

Harry scoffed at himself. Yeah, right!

He had peculiar dreams at night. Voices speaking to him from afar, whispering hoarsely in his mind. The night had lavished him in dubious gifts of sluggish nightmares and disturbing thoughts.

Voldemort smiled at some of his thoughts. It looked really creepy like a snake moving deep inside Harry, affecting some parts of him he hadn't known to exist. Colored by the light of the force-field, Voldemort looked truly monstrous. But then again, there was something beast-like in every powerful wizard. Some of them resembled kind and fluffy creatures, some were like Voldemort. Harry failed to suppress a giggle.

"You look like Scar".

Voldemort cast him an odd glance which seemed all the more funny. Do _scars_ usually grin at you? Harry shivered, having pictured the show in his mind, and hastened to explain: "I mean Scar the lion from a Muggle cartoon. He was the King's brother but he–".

"…murdered him, and took the throne, and died at the end, I know", Voldemort cut off. Harry glared at him, astonished. "The story is as banal at it could possibly be. Scar failed because he was a coward and an idiot. If you want a job done, do it yourself! You should never be afraid of taking chances. He should have slit his nephew's throat with his own claws, not send a bunch of pathetic hyenas after him. No wonder he ended up dead".

Something told Harry the conversation would soon slip back to him. He was Simba. His father was by no means Mufasa but there was something Mufasa-like in every guardian of his, a small detail that made him feel stronger, more protected. And Voldemort destroyed them all. He was Scar. But he always did the job himself.

Harry got up and made a few weak steps. Thirst nagged at him but albeit that he felt fine. He extracted Voldemort's wand from his pocket and pretended to be engrossed in studying it. It was a fine wand with a firm, elaborate handle. The wand that caused so many pain. Its tip was very sharp, almost a tip of a knife. Harry probed it and hissed quietly: he nearly pricked his finger. His back half turned on Voldemort, he could sense the Dark Lord paid more attention to him than he wanted to reveal.

"Are you sure you don't want this back?" Harry teased. "Good wand. Mr Olivander was right, they are almost identical".

Voldemort ignored him. Then he suddenly lunged forward but Harry was faster. He broke out laughing joyfully.

"I had to try", Voldemort shrugged.

"How come you know _The Lion King_?"

"I watch cartoons when there's nothing else to do. Say… between cooking up evil plans and breaking into other people's dreams. Don't tell my Death Eaters". Voldemort turned away, and it was almost impossible to say whether he meant what he'd said or not.

Harry's mouth dried, he had to put all his strength into the words he spoke. Nevertheless he went on chatting. Silence was the most frightening thing here. Harry wished Ron had been here. Ron could chat him away from this nightmare.

"Can you swim?" Harry asked.

"Yes, Potter. I can do _everything_".

"Really? Can you fly?"

It was a tricky question. "On a broom", Voldemort grumbled. His head began to ache, as if splitting his skull in two.

"That's different", Potter said in a hoarse voice; Voldemort wondered if the boy would soon die of thirst; that would both shut Potter up and eliminate him for good.

Potter went on blabbering. Concentrating on Plan B, Voldemort almost made himself ignore him. Honestly, being alone with Potter without magic started being very difficult.

"Can you shut up for a moment?" Voldemort queried.

The boy closed his mouth with a loud, theatrical click but before the Dark Lord was peacefully back to his musings, he burst into another bout of chattering, pouring out his entire life up to stupid (and extremely boring, in Voldemort's opinion) details of Hogwarts' Quidditch practices. It was almost unnatural. In Voldemort's view, Potter was (at least, he _should have been_) a rather serious, quiescent and depressed kid. This one, however, wouldn't stop picking on his nerves.

Harry caught the familiar glimmer in the red eyes. Exasperation. Uncle Vernon had been watching Harry with that sort of exasperation ever since he could remember though Harry by no means did anything as annoying to him. A crude smile roughened Harry's features.

"Are you fucking doing this on purpose?" Voldemort scowled and got up on his feet in a smooth movement almost undetectable in its speed.

Harry nodded curtly. "Yep! I wanna see how much you hate me".

It was Voldemort that threw the first punch. Blood splattered from Harry's nose. He tasted it and spat down. A chain of events that had been set in motion the night baby Harry defeated the Dark Lord Voldemort flickered in his mind. He leapt past Voldemort and attacked, each hard slap a reminder of someone slaughtered, someone deprived of home and childhood, someone like himself. He also wanted to test his own hate towards Voldemort.

They rolled on the ground and Harry could feel sharp wooden chips grind in between his shoulder blades. Voldemort was far stronger than him, but Harry attacked with desperate swiftness. It was hard to throw him off. Growling and cursing, they bruised, and smacked, and hit each other, leaving deep nail marks on pale skin, tearing clothes to rags.

Soon exhaustion prevailed. They became aware of the embarrassing entanglement of limbs their fight resulted in - Voldemort's knee firmly pressed against Harry's groin, thighs clenched tightly between each other. Breathing heavily, Harry was glaring at his adversary, their faces only inches apart. Voldemort drew nearer and licked the blood off of Harry's tightly pressed lips. His reptilian features looked almost human now.

Harry jumped back. Voldemort's laughter rocked under the shattering ceiling of their gaol.

"It doesn't matter how much I hate you, Harry. Even if I didn't hate you, I'd still want you dead".

Potter considered the statement seriously. He crawled closer to Voldemort and put his mouth over Voldemort's lips. The Dark Lord's touch felt cold as ice though it was considerably hot in the room, heated with buzzing force-field. To his surprise, Voldemort started kissing back. Soon the kiss grew into a fierce fight for domination. Harry was sinking into Voldemort, overwhelmed by his attractive power. Right now a question popped in his mind: Why had James refused to work with him? _How_ could James refuse him _anything_?

'Completely insane', Harry had a faint thought.

Something creaked in the nearby. Both men turned around simultaneously. A huge crack splintered on the pinkish flatland. Stars could be visible along with a royal blue curve of the sky…


	4. Poison

**Title**: "You Set My Soul Alight"

**Author**: Shaitanah

**Rating**: R

**Timeline**: post-HBP

**Summary**: During the battle between Harry and Voldemort a curse backfires and takes them to some isolated room which they can't get out of. Please R&R!

**Disclaimer**: _There's nothing here but here's mine? _(Correct me if I'm wrong, but I believe the quote belongs to _Placebo_). With that, I disclaim!

**A/N**: I think Voldemort might be a bit OOC (okay, a lot OOC) in this story. Sorry about that. It's just the way the story goes. I can't control it once I've started writing it! ;) But then again, if you like, there is an explanation: it is the way that odd reality affects both of them. (Harry definitely _is_ OOC here!) Anyway, thank you for your great reviews. Enjoy the next chapter! And once you've finished, don't forget to press that little review button at the bottom of the page. Your review is a portion of happiness for a day for me! Thanks beforehand!

* * *

**Chapter 4**

**POISON**

Potter held his breath. Loud creaking filled the room. The splinter continued to grow. Soon the whole pink wall was covered in tiny splits. Interweaving with each other, they formed a delicate ornament that resembled a huge snowflake.

Potter hopped on his feet and hastened towards the force-field. A hand wrapped around shin pulled him back, and he tumbled down, swearing furiously.

"Fuck! What did you do that for? There are plenty more noble ways to kill me!"

"We don't know anything for sure yet", Voldemort replied. "Why would it suddenly break? Do you wish to die the most painful death?"

Having said that, Voldemort offered an evil smile. Harry remembered that it was almost exactly what Dumbledore had said in their first year about the infamous corridor in Hogwarts where Fluffy resided. It filled him with anger and confusion.

Meanwhile, the Dark Lord approached the force-field with caution. It still hissed at him, pinkish flames rose to lick his hand as he stretched it out to feel the energy rising from the field. Voldemort skewed his eyes. Huge red sun was floating over the sky. Every second the stars paled and finally disappeared. That big strawberry pancake remained pinned to the sky, and Voldemort realized that it was the sky that moved around the sun, not vice versa.

"Must be some reality of illusion", he muttered and added in a louder voice: "It's alright, Potter, I know how to get us out from here".

Weak places could be found in every parallel dimension. They had to walk that meadow (or whatever there was behind the force-field) until they would have found a crack like that. Voldemort could contact his Death Eaters from there.

The idea of time startled him all of a sudden. How long had they been in that room? How long will they be there yet? His Death Eaters might have been already dead, not necessary killed at war – they might have died of old age. So as the children of their children. Nobody could say for sure how much time passed in the real world since he and Potter had left it.

Voldemort banished the thought. Best to concentrate on present problems, after all.

_Potter, Potter, Potter! Imagine there is noone but you and me alive in the world any more! That would be surreal._

"Give me your wand", said Voldemort.

Harry cast him a grim glance, then smirked. "Huh? What else? My life on a plate?"

"I know so much about your life already that I'm not even sure I still want to claim it". Disgusted look appeared on Voldemort's face. Harry giggled vividly. The Dark Lord found this sound the most revolting of all. It had been a long time since he himself laughed full-heartedly. But suddenly he realized that he didn't want Potter to stop. "My wand is broken, isn't it? But I definitely need a wand to enlarge the crack".

"Very logical", Harry grinned. "I'll do it for you".

"Oh yes, I am fortunate indeed, my life at the hands of a twitchy, immature teenager who doesn't know a thing about advanced magic!"

Harry ignored the taunt and came up to the wall. His wand's tip lay steadily on his shoulder. He couldn't help but notice he looked a bit like a showing off cowboy. He giggled again in a nervous fashion.

"Do you always laugh while hanging out with your principal enemies?" Voldemort teased. "Careful, Potter! You'd be considered a laughing stock among the Aurors. Professionalism is everything!"

Voldemort put his hand on Harry's shoulder. The boy tensed. 'A ball of nerves', thought Voldemort. He liked to unnerve people. It made the taste of his power sweeter.

He gave Harry instructions on how to crack the wall. Soon it seemed they had been working on it for years. Green sparks rained down from the wand in abundance. Harry felt exhausted, both physically and mentally. Voldemort being so close to him didn't help to relieve the situation, of course. Harry's mind switched to the comic fight that took place earlier… and to what followed afterwards. 'Did I really kiss V-vol…' Suddenly it was almost impossible for Harry to call him by his alias. He made a pathetic attempt at 'You-Know-Who', then thought: 'Riddle. That's his birthname, isn't it? He's Riddle'.

Voldemort's hand felt heavier on Harry's shoulder. It slid towards the bare skin in a slit of Harry's ragged t-shirt. The boy hauled back and muttered:

"Don't touch me!"

Voldemort's deep red eyes peered at him with amusement. "Or what?"

Harry stiffened. The man was before him in a blink of an eye, pressing him against the hard wall. His lips whispered in Harry's ear: "I told you before, I can touch you all I like", and his breath was hot, and moist, and vaguely arousing. Heat crept on Harry's face. Voldemort shifted the boy's unruly hair, and his agile tongue traced a soft line along the zigzag of Potter's scar.

_Ah, yes! His scar. My mark. That which led to my demise._

It hurt. Harry clenched his teeth. Air broke through this improvised barrier with a forceful hiss. It hurt so much. But Harry found some masochistic pleasure in that pain. It scared him. It was so unlike him. Voldemort's hand caressed his hip. Accepting the throbbing pain in his head, Harry thrust forward, pressing his body against Voldemort.

Voldemort's hand moved swiftly between his thighs. Harry wished there was no rough fabric of his jeans between it and his already hard cock. Voldemort continued the stimulation. Completely lost to the overwhelming ecstasy, Potter arched back against the wall and released a slow moan of passion.

Voldemort's kiss blazed on his lips.

The Dark Lord pulled away. Devastated, Harry looked at him with eyes wide open and noticed his wand in the Dark Lord's comely hand. The sight of it filled Harry with anger but he could do nothing about it.

"Sorry, Harry, but I can't allow us to creep like a snail on our way to freedom", Voldemort smiled like a predator.

He flourished the wand. Pale green ray of light broke into the force-field. It burst in flames and melted away. Voldemort peered carefully through the fresh opening. He made the first, timid step into the grass. It moved in a massive wave around him, up to his torso, tall and sweet-scented like a candy from a period buried in oblivion – Voldemort's childhood. Candy was a rare guest in his orphanage. But whenever he could get a lollypop or a toffee he felt happy. He even had a storage of them under his pillow until someone (Voldemort had naturally forgotten the name of that kid a long time ago) found it and robbed Tom of his precious supplies.

The meadow was a large valley engirdled with irrigation structures. Cloying smell of syrup was rising from there. Voldemort broke a piece off herb absent-mindedly and brought it to his mouth. He chewed thoughtfully. Hell, it was identical to those wretched sweets stolen from his storage all those years ago!

Voldemort spat the chunk out and turned to look at Harry.

The boy's appearance alarmed him. Harry was standing on his knees, very pale, and struggled to breathe. Moisture in the air intensified. Voldemort approached him. Potter lay down, convulsing, then exhaled sharply.

"Potter!" Voldemort called. 'Bloody hell! Are you going to die now? Why now?' "Potter! Can you hear me?"

At least the boy's heart was still beating.

Harry's eyes shot open, bright green like that emerald field around them. Voldemort stepped back for no particular reason. Something in those eyes warned him to stay away from Potter.

Potter spoke, and his voice was thin, and pleading, and threatening.

"Tom… Is that you, Tom? Where am I? Tom?"

The _Tom_ in him who should have remained silent as if dead replied through Voldemort's lips:

"Yes, Harry, I'm here. Wake up, Harry. Wake up! I need you to wake up now!"

"We're dead… Are we dead? Tom… why did you kill Ginny? Why kill her? I loved her".

* * *

Potter's world was a psychedelic painting, all turned upside down, divided into blocks, and discolored particles, and pixels. Voldemort's reptilian face cracked like an old shell, and he saw Tom's cold, shimmering beauty. Tom looked exactly as he did in the Chamber of Secrets.

The image dissolved, throwing Harry in a horrific gulf vortex of war. He was running, chased by something he could neither see nor hear, but he felt it clearly. His sensations heightened. His skull was splitting because of intolerable pain in his scar.

Harry stopped to catch his breath. He suffocated as if after running up a crumbling dune. He knelt before a body lying in front of him. It was a girl, her red hair was damp and covered in gore at the roots.

"Ginny…" Potter sighed. He was weak. "I wasn't strong enough to save you!"

Another redhead in the distance. Ron… He was trying to shield Hermione when death caught him. Hermione's eyes are wide open and blank. Nothing but darkness within them. Pupils like black lenses over the whites.

"Tom", Harry moaned. "You killed them all".

* * *

Voldemort slapped him in the face. The wretched boy just had to wake up! He couldn't die now, no, not _now_. Voldemort wanted him to suffer. He must kill him personally!

_Are you sure?_ His inner voice broke in his hectic thoughts. _Are you so sure you want him to wake up because of that? Or is there something else? Perhaps you suddenly care for the boy…_

Voldemort smirked. What a wonderful, what a brilliant, what a stupid idea! Come to think of it, he always cared for Potter in a twisted way: he wanted the boy to stay alive to prolong his torment.

However, when it came to mental disorder, Voldemort realized he was seriously worried about Potter. Delusional, the boy continued ranting. Voldemort pressed his hand to his sweaty forehead. Cold. Ice cold. He sniffed. His breath smelled with wild berries.

"Amazing!" the Dark Lord hissed without bothering to conceal irritation. "When did you find time to eat something?"

* * *

Panting, Harry moved down through the bodies. Some faces looked familiar, others were new to him. Harry's emotions froze somewhere between grief and overwhelming hatred.

"Tom!" Harry howled, lifting his head towards the skies. "You pathetic killer, come out! Kill me if you like or at least do try, you're no match for me!"

"Is that so, Harry?" Voldemort's mellow voice broke through.

* * *

Meanwhile, the real Dark Lord dragged Potter's senseless body away from the damaged wall and laid him down on the hill. A wide river branch was flowing in the nearby. It spread faint raspberry fumes in the air.

Voldemort marked a few herbs that could be useful if he needed to brew a potion. On the other hand, noone could guarantee they weren't poisonous in this illusive realm.

"Tom!" Harry groaned. Voldemort shivered. He hated that name. The name of his filthy Muggle father who broke his mother's heart. It had been so pleasant to see him die. Harry repeated: "Tom…"

"Stop calling me _that_!" Voldemort snapped and hit the boy in the face again. That might as well wake him up. If not, at least Voldemort's wrath would be satisfied.

"_Why Voldemort?" Lucius once asked him._

"_Do you like the name Riddle?" Voldemort gave an odd reply. "L o r d R i d d l e! Isn't it a name for a jester? Am I a jester, Lucius?"_

_Malfoy gave a stiff bow. It was suddenly very hot the room. He could sense his master's growing discontent. All because of one foolish question! Voldemort hated digging into his own past. Especially when others did it. Tension was thick and menacing. Voldemort's eyes narrowed to slits._

"_Are you afraid, Lucius? Good. Fear becomes you in a certain way"._

_Malfoy gritted his teeth, then bowed again. "I shouldn't have bothered you with my mean curiousity, my lord"._

_When he left, Voldemort wondered if he actually understood what the real reason of changing the name had been. Thomas Riddle, a nobleman who spoiled a young miserable witch's life. His father, his namesake._

"If you ever call me that, I won't hesitate to leave you here, Harry", Voldemort whispered in the boy's ear. "I won't even kill you. I'll just leave you to rot. Believe them when they say I have no mercy. But you know that about me, don't you?"

* * *

Riddle came down the hill and stopped opposite Harry. The Boy Who Lived stared at the young Dark Lord with animosity.

"It is a vision, Harry", the memory uttered. "It is perfectly illogical. You're sleeping. Or dying. Or you might be dead already".

"Then I'm not afraid", Harry replied and attacked.

Riddle leapt in the air and froze above Harry. Gravity didn't seem to work on him. He spread his arms and laughed. Harry frowned. His body was like a tight string. He flew up and rushed towards Riddle. The youth grabbed him by the forearms and held him firmly. Harry twitched, trying to break free.

"You're like a kitten, Harry", Tom smiled. "You're too weak for me".

"Really?" Harry asked and kissed him forcefully, pressing close to him. He could feel Tom's heartbeat as if in his own chest.

Tom's hands explored Harry's body. Tart taste of mint and candy filled Potter's mouth.

Tom pulled away and sank slowly to his knees. His comely hands rested on Harry's belt. Dark smile shone out on Harry's face. Here was the Dark Lord Voldemort – on his knees before his arch-nemesis.

Just as Tom began unzipping Harry's fly, something buzzed in the distance. A shocking blow came directly from upslope leaving Harry dabbling in cold darkness.


	5. A Dangerous Man

**Title**: "You Set My Soul Alight"

**Author**: Shaitanah

**Rating**: R

**Timeline**: post-HBP

**Summary**: _You lust for power. Power, you shall have. But nothing more… You are a dangerous man, Tom Riddle!_ Please R&R!

**Disclaimer**: _There's nothing here but what here's mine? _(Correct me if I'm wrong, but I believe the quote belongs to _Placebo_). With that, I disclaim!

**A/N**: Thank you for your wonderful reviews! They keep me writing. Any questions? I'm ready to answer them. A bit of shameless self-promotion. I have a James/Voldemort fic archived here called 'Nothing Left To Say'. Check it out for more info on Voldemort's relation to James. That's what Harry wants to hear from him, right?

Enjoy!

"Regular speech" / -_Parseltongue-

* * *

_

**Chapter 5**

**A DANGEROUS MAN**

In the coldest part of night Tom ran along the street. Christmas Eve was drawing near. Shop-windows sparkled with decorative lights. Gleeful faces, rosy because of the frost, flashed here and there. Sweet music was drifting in the air.

Fat clouds of vapour puffed around Tom's face. The dominant smell in his nostrils was the brittle mustiness of snow. Tears of cold started in his eyes.

He burst into a brightly lit candy shop, bringing a tiny hurricane of snowflakes in. The doorbell chimed gently. Riddle pushed past a group of teens who were chattering vividly and stopped by a shelf full of caramel and toffee. He never ate chocolate but he liked lollypops from time to time. He admitted that it was a bit infantile a habit. The future all-powerful Dark Lord wasn't supposed to like sweets.

Tom took two packs of sheer green candy, pain in haste and moved to an adjoining lodging where cozy arm-chairs were situated. It was a reading hall lined with high shelves on which old volumes lay in dust and precious handwritten books were wrapped in protective leather shields infused with magic. Tom came here to read quite often. Hogwarts library was usually empty before holidays but he preferred this place, regardless. Few students visited this secret part of the shop. It was a calm place for adult wizards. At the age of sixteen Tom had already been a grown-up of formidable learning.

He picked a book and his fingers intertwined with somebody else's fingers unintentionally. Tom lifted his head. His eyes met a pair of dark green eyes, half shaded by a raven fringe. He recognized their owner as an American exchange student, Bonnie Hilt. Their paths rarely crossed at school. She was in Ravenclaw, a year younger than Tom, a bit aloof and presumptuous. Smart and rather good-looking, she was neither popular nor invisible.

"Sorry", said Bonnie and let Tom collect the book.

He explored her pale face with his eyes. Her cheeks were burning. She had just come from the outside. A packet of soufflé fruitcakes peeked out of her pocket.

"No problem", Tom said in a low voice.

He took a seat by the fire-place and opened the book. A few adult wizards were flashing through their volumes, sucking on huge pipes.

Tom looked at Bonnie who had assumed a seat opposite him with a fierce glance.

"Don't worry, I can take hints", she winked at him.

"Apparently not", Tom muttered.

Something about her nearly made him mad. Whether it was her intrusiveness, or her mysteriousness, he could not tell. It might have even been her American accent. Whenever he spoke to her, he sounded as English as possible. His words became sharpened by the pressure of his own accent combined with his obvious resentment of Bonnie.

"Why, the crownless Prince of Slytherin will tolerate my presence since he's granted me permission to stay!" she chided theatrically.

"What do you want, Hilt?" Tom asked.

The girl smiled almost timidly. That was odd. But then again, she had always been that confusing.

"The same as you do, I'm sure. To read".

Bonnie opened her book (chiromancy, Tom was keen to notice) and was soon engrossed in reading. She didn't disturb Tom but he couldn't help but pay more attention to her than she ever deserved.

"You seriously buy that crap?" Tom asked finally.

Bonnie shrugged. "I'm fond of divination. It can be lots of fun. Hey, would you like me to tell your fortunes?"

Tom gaped at her. She must have been joking. Merlin, it was so silly. Nevertheless, he opened his palm and let Bonnie study it. She looked very serious. A thin frown cut her forehead. Tom breathed her scent in, a faint perfume and snow that remained in droplets on the collar of her coat.

"I see a complicated path laid before you", Bonnie said. Tom chuckled. How predictable! "Soon you will have to face a choice between what is right and what is easy. I cannot guarantee which side you will choose but I have a guess. It will be a Dark Side".

"Thank you, Sybil!" Tom smirked.

"You have already lost much. But you will lose even more".

"How about anything I shall _gain_?" Tom tried to make his voice sound less anxious but, in fact, Hilt's fortune-telling was beginning to cause his interest.

"You want power", Bonnie concluded. "Power, you shall have. But nothing more".

"There is no good and evil", Tom whispered. "There is only power… and those too weak to seek it".

Those were his words composed into a similarity of an ancient formula, a motto, perhaps. In times like these, dark and faltering times, he fed off of its inner strength.

"You are a dangerous man, Riddle", said Bonnie.

Tom reached out, stroked her marble cheek with his fingertips. She _was_ beautiful, after all. And she must have been powerful enough to have read him like a book. Secretive, mistrustful and friendless, Tom both hated and admired the way she did that to him.

* * *

Voldemort woke up from the talons of his dream and shook his head. Incredible! He had a dream. This place (whatever it was!) presented him with a dream! He hadn't had dreams for a really long period of time. 

But what a dream it was! Such a meticulous replay of those distant events. A girl whom Riddle would never speak again to. The kind of magic he'd never believed in. Icky discipline, divination.

Watchful eyes observed him. Voldemort turned around and was surprised to see Potter upright on his bed of leaves. Still unhealthily pale (but then again, he always was), the boy looked better. It gladdened the Dark Lord.

"You have acquired a bad habit to pass out in my presence, Harry", he jested. "It can cost you life, you know".

"I don't think so. You've already wasted a dozen chances. So, err… where exactly are we?"

Voldemort explained him his theory quickly. Then he remembered the berries and inquired harshly why Harry had eaten them.

Somewhere deep he understood that the boy was merely hungry. The abundance of food and plenty of water outside their prison could have driven anyone out of logic. Voldemort looked warily at the herb that reminded him of candy. He wondered briefly what Potter would taste in it.

"I'm sorry", the young wizard murmured quietly. "I won't do anything as reckless again. I promise".

_Why so submissive now?_ Voldemort pursed his lips in deep thought. The boy looked like a ghost.

"Well, come on, Casper!" Voldemort encouraged. "Time presses!"

They moved on through the field of still grass. The sky was a contrast blue dome above them. Birds sang in the wind. They were skylarks, to Voldemort's sharp hearing.

Harry choked with laughter. "Casper?"

"Yes, why not? You look like a foamy ghost and you have a nasty fat uncle, too".

A sense of humour? Of _Voldemort_? Harry rolled his eyes dreamily, hoping there was enough time left to tell the story to Ron and Hermione.

His memory drifted back to his delusions. Everything seemed so obscenely _real_! He was afraid to look at Voldemort now. First he'd almost given himself over to him, then the dream… Tom's hands on his belt, Tom's embrace, soft, and tormenting, and unforgettable… Harry was getting hard again at the mere thought of Tom.

But – this – man – was – not – Tom!

Drowning in these thoughts, Harry lost track of time. Night threw its veil over the endless meadow. It got colder. They started a camp and a small fire. Still hungry, Harry listened to funny noises his stomach was making.

"I'll try to find something edible", said Voldemort, looking around carefully. "Stay here".

"The hell I will! So that you could leave me here?"

"Harry, I can't possibly protect you from _everything_!" Voldemort blurted out.

"_Protect me?_ Well, you don't have to! You're the one who's trying to kill me. I'm a big boy and I'm perfectly capable of taking care for myself!"

He gave Voldemort an icy look. The Dark Lord's eyes narrowed to slits and blazed with bloody fire. Harry opened his mouth to add something, but blood froze in his veins when Voldemort hissed loudly:

_-S-s-sit down!-_

Numb-struck, Harry obeyed. It took him several seconds to recognized Parseltongue.

_-Good!- _Voldemort sizzled. -_You will do as-s-s I s-s-say!- _

His robed figure dissolved in the fog that formed quickly around the plain. The fire was crackling softly. Harry let out a shaky breath he didn't realize he'd been holding.

A tiny yellow dot blinked in the mist. A wand. Harry frowned and screamed, kicking a log with his boot:

"Son of a bitch!"

That bastard had his wand. Harry remembered it perfectly now. He still had his wand. But then again, Voldemort's one was in Harry's possession. He extracted it from his pocket slowly and examined the rapture. Just ripped apart. No glue, no skills to mend it. But Harry was absolutely sure: he could use Voldemort's weapon just as naturally as Voldemort used his. 'Brothers', Mr Olivander had called them. So it became a matter of his safety to mend the wand.

He resuscitated that scant knowledge he had of herbology. Neville once told him there was a way to fix anything if you had a special set of herbs. But where to find it?

Harry walked a few paces away from the camp. His foot dipped into a swampy, smelly wetness. He jumped backwards and ended up in the middle of a moor. Thick smell of decay prevailed.

Feeling dizzy, Harry pressed his forehead to a rough trunk of a tree. The smell bombarded his consciousness. Harry squinted his eyes at a small bushy isle at his feet. According to Neville, one of the herbs should have been violet and covered in tender peach-like fluff. If Harry's eyes did not deceive him, he was looking right at it.

He let his sleeve off a bit to protect his fingers and tore a blade of grass out. It had a harsh, acid smell that made it quite recognizable. Satisfied, Harry shoved it in his pocket.

He wandered the moor for a time long enough to start wondering if Voldemort had actually decided to leave him behind. Thoughts mixed up in his head. He found the rest of the mentioned set (at least, the herbs _seemed_ to match) and went back to the camp. No sign of Voldemort. It should have relieved Harry (after all, the bastard only cared for him because he wanted to finish him off himself later). But it didn't.

Using his shoe, Harry pounded the compounds to a uniformal mass, mixed it carefully and added some of his saliva to dampen it. Neville said to use water but Harry could find only the swamp rot which he was a bit reluctant to use.

"Well, Neville", he muttered, "let's hope it works".

He spread the sticky mass on both parts of the wand and joined them together. He held his breath. A pencil of pale blue rays swept over the fracture. The parts stuck together. A thin splinter remained but it was gone within a few seconds. The wand was whole and new once again.

Harry felt a jolt of pride. He repaired Voldemort's wand! Now the most important thing was to find out if magic worked here. Once they'd broken free from that dusty vacuum, everything was possible.

Harry flicked the wand and tried casting the simplest levitation charm. Nothing. Either magic didn't work here (but then why had Voldemort's spell broken the force-field?), or the wand refused to obey Harry contrary to his observations.

"Come on", his words dropped listlessly. "Please. Come on, I'll _make_ you work!"

Over and over again he repeated, '_Wingardium Leviosa!_' Had he been in class now, Hermione would have been very proud of his stubbornness. Sometimes he had to peer cautiously in the dark not to miss Voldemort's approach.

The wand still refused to submit after more than an hour of relentless practice. Harry gritted his teeth and growled unhappily.

"It's fucking not fair! I'm the bloody Hero of the Wizarding World! Heroes usually get help from fortune. Where's my blasted fortune? Shit! Shit! Shit!"

Harry caught his breath and tried to settle down. It was a matter life and death. No time to sink into despair. He picked up the fallen wand and chanted very clearly:

"_Wingardium Leviosa!_"

Then, suddenly, Harry's shoe floated a few centimeters above the ground. Harry gasped joyfully. The shoe dropped. But it didn't matter. The wand was operational!

Thick bushes rustled to his left. Harry jumped up in a nervous fashion. Voldemort emerged from the bushes and threw a dozen huge balls down by the fire. They looked like overgrown snails ripped out of their shells.

"Yikes! What are those?"

"Our dinner", said Voldemort. "I've tested them, they're fine. Not particularly delicious but at least, they won't cause you another bout of hallucinations".

"Yeah? Should I trust your word?"

Voldemort's eyes flashed scarlet. "Eat them – or don't eat them, it's as simple as that".

After a moment of hesitation Harry set to his first, awkwardly plain shared meal with Lord Voldemort. The 'snails' tasted like bittersweet overripe fruit of unknown origin. Harry hardly restrained himself: he was so hungry he could finish the lot.

Voldemort remained silent and leisured. Harry watched him from the corner of his eyes. Somewhere deep in the folds of his night-black robe the Dark Lord hid his wand. But no matter, Harry thought with fierce pride, I have _his_ now.

Once again, he was fully armed and ready.


	6. Lilies In Blood

**Title**: "You Set My Soul Alight"

**Author**: Shaitanah

**Rating**: R

**Timeline**: post-HBP

**Summary**: Those who are in love are extremely difficult to deal with. Please R&R!

**Disclaimer**: Everything belongs to J.K. Rowling.

**A/N**: Thanks for reviews! There's one thing you should know. I'm planning to do a sequel after this story is finished, or at least smth that would look like a sequel. A series of one-shots connected to 'You Set My Soul Alight', maybe. I'm not sure yet. Tell me what you think, will you? _-Thankssssss-_.

"Regular speech" / _-Parseltongue__-

* * *

_

**Chapter 6**

**LILIES IN BLOOD**

_James put up a courageous fight. Yes, such was James, foolish, and valiant, and self-sacrificial. Unnecessarily brave. He was the right kind of man._

_Slowly I entered the hall and walked upstairs. The staircase was perfectly still under my feet. It reminded me of some ridiculous countrhyme._

_One…_

_Somebody moved above me. James's muggleborn wife._

_Two…_

_She was a beautiful woman. Wavy red hair, deep gentle eyes and a smile that calls for the word 'angelic'._

_Three…_

_It's a pity she had to die._

_Four…_

_(I didn't count every step, don't worry!) I came by the door. Light flickered a few steps ahead. She was there, hoping to save James's filthy half-blood spawn. _

_Five…_

_I stopped and knocked. Bad idea to warn your enemy that you're coming. But then again, she must have heard her husband screaming downstairs._

_Six…_

_She tried to slam the door shut in my face. I threw her across the wall. She swallowed the scream not to disturb the baby._

_Seven…_

_I saw him. He was sitting in his crib. Mrs Potter shrieked at me and rushed to shield him. I beat the wand out of her hand._

_Seven is my lucky number._

"_Step aside, silly girl", I hissed in a low, rumbling whisper that made the blood of my victims usually run cold._

"_No! Not Harry, please! Take me instead!" she pleaded._

"_I don't need you. Give me the child and be gone!"_

_I already knew I had to kill her. It must have been the only way to move her aside. _

"_Please, not Harry… have mercy!" she begged. "Have mercy!"_

"_Mercy?" I mimicked her. "Foolish girl! Don't you know who I am? Now, one last chance: stand aside and live!"_

_She was a mother, I thought dimly. How could she stand aside? Mothers became very dim-witted and stubborn when someone threatened their children._

_I uttered the spell. It flashed killing green, shattering everything around me. Pain followed; pain beyond pain, nothing could prepare me for it! I was ripped from my body, less than the meanest ghost! The house wrecked. Light was gone…"

* * *

_

The shared dream ended abruptly in a bright green flash. Harry and Voldemort awoke, panting. Sweat beaded up on their foreheads. Harry's scar hurt terribly.

They exchanged stunned looks. Harry was ready to bounce up and press the tip of the wand to Voldemort's throat. His heart burst in flames of agony. He'd just seen his mother's death and Voldemort's demise. But he didn't dare succumb to his anger. Voldemort needn't have known he had his wand. 'All in good time', Harry told himself pragmatically.

Voldemort eyed him challengingly, as if waiting for him to strike. When nothing happened, they had breakfast in silence and moved on. Harry wondered how long they'd be looking for the portal.

"You said my father was a fool", the boy asked finally. "What about my mother?"

"Don't start", the wizard said moodily.

"I want an answer!"

Voldemort faced him and exclaimed: "Really? And I want to get out of here, to be immortal and to rule Britain! Oh, and don't forget the moon from the sky! I'd settle for that too".

A nice way to explain him that people don't always get what they want!

They went forward, Voldemort a few paces ahead. Embittered, Harry drilled his back with a vexed look. He hated him, he _hated_, _hated_ him!

"What is it about you and my parents?" he cried in a shrill voice. "Feeling guilty?"

"That's it! Don't fuck with me, Potter!"

A sudden punch sent Harry flying. He sank onto the ground and howled in pain. It shot through his entire body, igniting a new firework of rage. His enmity towards Voldemort increased.

Through the veil of tears he saw Voldemort leave. And he screamed at the top of his lungs:

"Fine! Jog on! Alright with me! I don't need you to get out alive!"

Then Harry was left alone. His heart thudded; alone with that sound, Harry bit his tongue and listened. He was in the middle of the jungle. He hadn't noticed when it grew around him. He got up and walked. A huge purple bruise blossomed on his chest. Harry could see it through the rags of his t-shirt.

He must kill Voldemort. The lust for it blazed anew after what he'd seen. Voldemort's stupefying voice (a bit different a mode than it was now, after his rebirth) was still ringing in his ears like heavy music.

Harry fell down, tortured by grief and thirst. Clouded by memories of the past, his brain refused to work. He wasn't strong enough. Never. Too many people died because of him. He'd taken it all, the hurt, the blame, and cried his guts out, shaded by protective branches of trees.

* * *

Voldemort was thirsty. Those 'snails' had some strange juice in them that banned thirst for a while. Now it was back, more prepared to attack. Somehow Lord Voldemort divided everything into foes and potential allies. His thirst, for example, was the worst kind of foe; terribly annoying, it also sucked the strength out of him bit by bit. Harry's thirst, on a contrary, was an ally. It might make the youth more submissive. When he'd have finished with that bloody rebellion, of course.

Time that used to rush now floated with agonizing slowness. Voldemort explored half of the realm in search of water, or so it seemed to him. Finally, completely fed up, he sat down under a tree and tried to clear his mind. The result of the meditation was very unexpected: he began thinking of Potter.

He caught himself calling him 'the youth', not 'the boy'. 'So what? The kid has grown up, which is only natural'. He was a handsome young man, though he should have washed his head a bit more often. And those stupid binoculars… Voldemort wondered if his poor eye-sight was also the side-effect of that unsuccessful Avada Kedavra.

It was such an obvious demonstration of weakness! Why hadn't the boy have it healed as soon as he knew he was magic? He could have gone to any wizarding clinic and have the spell performed in no time. Voldemort remembered Dumbledore. No, the man was old; he hadn't been wearing those stupid half-moon spectacles for ever.

Dumbledore was _dead_. Voldemort should have been satisfied – and he was! Oh, he was when Severus had brought him the marvelous news! But he realized only now: the hell it mattered! He wanted the old fool back. It was scary to be afraid of nothing. Someone (it might even have been Dumbledore) once told him: "Those who claim they are afraid of nothing are either fools, or heartless". For a brief moment after he'd learnt of Dumbledore's death, Voldemort thought his fear was gone forever. He even considered to bring a Boggart in and check.

The issues he had with Harry's parents… _Guilt_? Voldemort let out a shrill laughter that erupted the stillness of the wood.

"Oh, Harry, you know so little about me", he whispered.

Hushed noise in the distance interrupted his brooding. Voldemort peered in that direction. There was something behind the trees that sounded very familiar, almost like…

* * *

Harry gasped in delight. It was a small pond with a waterfall that came down from a high cliff. Surrounded by trees, it remained concealed in the thicket. Harry was blissfully alone with an endless source of clear water. His face brightened into a smile. He scooped up a handful of water and drank greedily.

The thought came only then that he should probably have checked it for grudges, or viruses, or at least dirt. Harry shook his head and said to himself: 'Whatever! It's too late now, anyway!'

It was very hot, so he decided to go for a swim. He stripped to waist and entered cool waters of the pond. It was so nice to feel the soft caress of the wind on his skin. He let the wind guide him and followed it to the middle of the lake. The waterfall was singing softly. Harry floated up and down, colliding into miniature waves, he swallowed water droplets and laughed quietly at how childish and how relieving this activity was.

And then it rained. Pierced by rain drops, the surface of the lake boiled around Harry. Refreshed, he looked up at the sky. It cleared up. The rain stopped, but not before it healed Harry's inner wounds.

He continued his slow motion towards the shore. His limbs were already heavy, he must have spent too much time in the water. He heard loud splashes by the waterfall, and unexpectedly Voldemort emerged from its shining wall.

"You!" Harry exclaimed indignantly.

Voldemort rolled his eyes. "Honestly, is there no escape from you, Potter?"

"Go the fuck away?"

"Why? Did you _buy_ this pond?"

Harry bit his lip and spattered Voldemort with water. The splash turned out weak and caused the Dark Lord to laugh sardonically. Harry couldn't help but wonder whether he was totally naked underwater.

"Is that all you're capable of? Dumbledore's _Chosen One_! Huh!"

Harry splashed more fiercely. Voldemort responded. A rolling wave washed over Harry. He coughed, wiped his glasses and waged his war against the Dark Lord. They chased each other in the middle of the pond, sneering, roaring with laughter, cursing and daring each other to act braver.

"How do you hope to win the war, Harry", Voldemort teased, "if you're losing a kid's play?"

Potter opened his mouth to reply but another wave covered him and buried him under its jelly-like mass. He strained to hold his breath. He had never been closer to drowning albeit the second task of the TriWizard Tournament.

Strong arms pulled Harry up. He coughed, water spilt down his chin. He blinked several times and saw Voldemort looking at him with restraint curiousity. Voldemort's arm was wrapped around his torso. Harry's head reposed steadily on the older wizard's shoulder. The youth inhaled shakily.

"Thanks…" he murmured. "I don't swim very well".

"Yes, so I've noticed", Voldemort chuckled. "As a matter of fact, neither do I. we used to go to the seaside with the orphanage, but it wasn't very entertaining".

"Where to?"

"Lots of places. Brighton… once".

"My guardians used to take me to the seaside", Harry confessed. Talking was the best way to keep himself distracted from Voldemort's nudity that became painfully apparent now that he could feel his skin against his own. "But my cousin Dudley… You see, he swam like an axe. His parents told me to stay out of the water until he would have learnt to swim well enough".

"Did he learn?" Voldemort wanted to know.

Harry shrugged – as much as he could possibly shrug. "Nope. He still swims like an axe, he's too fat. The Black Lake had improved my skills. Sure as hell, I needed to pluck up all my courage!"

Voldemort reached a craggy stone that protruded from the water and sat Harry on top of it. The youth shivered and breathed in through the nose with an unhealthy wet sound. He remembered the feel of Voldemort's muscular body, his insatiable kisses back in the locked room. His hate subsided for an instant, replaced by a predatory lust for yet another kiss, another touch. He slipped back in the lake and looked at Voldemort with a hint of invitation.

"Your teeth are chattering", the Dark Lord smirked. "Not now".

Harry planted a soft yet insisting kiss on his lips. He wanted it – now, exactly now, as if he were afraid that this solution would fade in time.

Voldemort wrapped his arms around the boy, pressing him roughly against the rock. The feel of him was intoxicating. Could it really be so damn simple? Voldemort suspected the catch but, obviously, there was none. Potter was ready to follow him.

_-I will do as you s-s-say-_, the boy slithered in Parseltongue. The Dark Lord congratulated himself with victory.

Writhing in ecstasy, Harry thought vaguely the triumph was his. A few more steps to go up the stairs of his plan – and he'd get his wand back and avenge his family. Joy flooded him. He moaned in delight while Voldemort planted ecstatic bruising kisses on his lips, his neck, his shoulders. The only thing that bothered Harry was that he actually liked it – the sensation of Voldemort inside him and against him, and being alone with him just like this, and he didn't want it to end.

He had never felt anything like that before. Struggling to regain control over his body, the youth pressed his forehead against Voldemort's forearm. His vision was slightly blurred.

Why, had he just lost his virginity to Him-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named? Harry smiled wearily.

They kissed again, every kiss more like a ferocious animal fight.

Something rattled behind the trees. Harry's heart leapt to his throat. For the better part of a minute both he and Voldemort stared in that direction. They reached the shore then quickly and ran into the jungle. Harry's wet pants beat him on the knees. Voldemort summoned his dry robe and wrapped himself up in it.

They tore through the thicket as if chased by wild beasts, then came to a halt suddenly. Harry nearly bumped into Voldemort from the back. Even he had run short of breath.

Potter lowered his head and saw a delicate flower bed of milky-white lilies. Their petals were sprayed with blood. Its red was so intense it seemed almost black.

"We're not alone", Voldemort whispered.

Harry glanced at him, startled. Voldemort's face was grim yet impassive.

"But… but it could be anything. It could be animal blood, right?"

Voldemort nodded stiffly and said:

"But it's not".


	7. Quid Times?

**Title**: "You Set My Soul Alight"

**Author**: Shaitanah

**Rating**: R

**Timeline**: post-HBP

**Summary**: They fight, they save each other, they fight again… It has no end! Please R&R!

**Disclaimer**: Everything belongs to J.K. Rowling.

**A/N**: Thank you for your wonderful reviews! Honestly, I feel so happy, thank the lot of you!

**A/N2**: The name of the chapter is Latin for _'What are you afraid of?_'

* * *

**Chapter 7**

**QUID TIMES?**

Harry mastered his heartbeat and tried to reason:

"Look, it doesn't mean anything! It could be anything! Anyone! Why are you so nervous?"

"I know better than to fuck with natives of magical realms, especially on their territory!" Voldemort snapped.

They were moving across a large pale green valley. Still air was standing around them in a circle. Voldemort strolled so fast that Harry barely caught up with him.

"Would you, please, tell me what's the rush?"

Voldemort gave no reply. His attitude began getting on Harry's nerves. This time he got really furious with him.

"I don't want to be used! _-You will tell me! Now!__-_"

The Dark Lord paused. Harry eyed him impatiently. His disheveled hair lay on his forehead in disorder, so that his scar was visible. Voldemort felt an inexplicable desire to touch it. He leaned into the boy and kissed him softly on the forehead.

"Noone knows the outcome of our meeting", he said. "We're guests here. But they, those _others,_ are masters. We are on their land. We should leave as soon as possible. Pay attention, Potter: there are no birds, no animals here, not even any insects. I was a fool to believe there were no people. But this blood belongs to men. I know that. They may be wizards, or Muggles, or werewolves, whatever! They might even be Giants! But there's one thing I do know for sure: we must get out! _-Now!-_"

He went on, having finished his speech. Harry followed him, puzzled. Opposite feelings wrestled in his heart. He still hated Voldemort for having murdered his family but he had learnt of some other side of him. Not exactly better or softer. Just different.

They didn't stop for the night. By morning Harry had completely exhausted himself, but Voldemort wouldn't let him halt. They were running away though Harry wasn't even sure they were being pursued.

Three days passed in the same fashion. Or at least, it seemed to be three days. Their halts were enervatingly short, filled with either hard silence, or passionate lovemaking. Harry hadn't said good-bye to his hope of getting his wand back yet. But it was almost impossible to do. Hopefully, Voldemort wasn't aware that the boy had fixed the other wand.

When Harry managed to get some sleep, he dreamt of Tom. He strived to see Tom in Voldemort; sometimes he succeeded, but there were times when he could hardly believe it was the same person. Harry's chaotic emotions embarrassed him. Finally he began to call Voldemort by his birthname. At first, the Dark Lord grew very angry and threatened to kill him. But Harry wouldn't give up so easily.

"What does 'Voldemort' mean?" he wanted to know.

"It's French for 'flight of death'", the Dark Lord explained.

"Stupid name".

"Well, _I_ like it".

It abused Harry that Voldemort wouldn't talk to him much. He could look at him for hours, struggling to find something that would help him hate the man, or teach him to love him – but he saw only emptiness.

* * *

Tom's hands rested on his hips; their lips collided in a long, ferocious kiss. Tom wanted to suck him dry. Like an evil suggestion, he was everywhere. Just as Harry wanted him to be.

Tom let his rest for a while and took a small detour across the imaginary hill. Standing on top of it, he observed the plain, bathed in purple and dull golden light.

Harry watched him, unseen under the shade of trees. In dreams, he was Tom, lonely and arrogant, full of pride and highest expectations. But _not evil_. Harry would wake up to meet Lord Voldemort again, serious, engrossed in his dark musings, but he would fall asleep to be with Tom.

This dream reality was probably more solid than the magic realm they'd been stuck in. Harry learnt he could always go back there without the local berries' narcotic effect. Not that he needed to since it had become hard to choose between the Dark Lord and his younger self.

Tom walked down the hill and stopped a few meters away from a high old-fashioned tombstone. Harry peeked out of his shelter and saw an engravement:

_THOMAS RIDDLE, esq._

That was Harry's chance, and he decided to act quickly. He'd seen this particular dream more than once. Tom – Voldemort's perception – would just stand there, glaring at the tombstone, savouring each letter of the words that formed the name that he loathed so arduously. It always meant that Voldemort's slumber was deep.

Harry made himself wake up and crouched towards Voldemort. He looked oddly appealing, even handsome in his sleep. Being exquisitely noiseless, Harry reached out for the wand.

The dream realm shattered. Tom tensed and dissolved into Voldemort's subconsciousness just as the Dark Lord opened his scarlet eyes and gripped the thief by the hand.

"Not a fair game, Potter!"

"Give me back my wand!" Harry yelled.

Voldemort's lips curved into a smile. Once again, he resembled a snake more than a human being.

"I've already told you, Harry: you _want_ too much".

The rest of the night passed peacefully. Voldemort refused to go on sleeping and sat by a big tree, wallowing in his thoughts. Sometimes he let his eyes wander, and they slid over Harry who couldn't sleep either, his mind back to their confrontation. As much as he wanted to hide it, Voldemort _was_ afraid of something. Something in these woods.

The trees were whispering. If Harry pricked up his ears, he could distinguish a few simple words though he did not know their language.

He fell asleep quite soon, lulled by the foliage's soft whispering.

* * *

Harry woke up refreshed and rested. He yawned widely. It felt as if he had slept in his bed, not on the ground…

He looked around. No sign of Voldemort nearby. Probably gone looking for food again.

Harry swept the remnants of the campfire away and stomped ashes into the ground. Voldemort never left visible signs of their halt and Harry repeated after him unwittingly.

It struck him they had never discussed what to do if anyone of them got stranded. Harry waited for his companion to show up for three hours. He didn't come.

Swearing under his breath, Harry gripped the wand tight in his pocket and decided to go looking for him.

* * *

'_They were faery!'_

Voldemort's eyes snapped open. Carefully, deftly he swailed from the purple-blue-golden haze that clouded everything around him. He felt dizzy and was happy about it: this world brought back his sensitivity that made all humans what they were.

Voldemort never believed in second chances. But then again, hadn't fate given him the second chance when it allowed his rebirth in Little Hangleton?

Voldemort cleared his mind. The faery captured him at night. He had hardly seen them/ harsh smell of herbs made him drowsy. He managed to see some tiny winged creatures before his head hit the ground.

Voldemort had encountered faery before. Nasty little buggers. Too many destinies expected him now: to get boiled in a cauldron, to be drained of blood that would make a fine potion ingredient, sacrificed to some hungry god – hell, even turned into a slave! Faery were far more dangerous than wizards. Even such a sorcerer as Voldemort was an easy prey for them.

He planned to ally with faery just as he had recruited Giants and werewolves. However, they were too wayward to deal with.

The bee-fried air smelled with pollen. Voldemort struggled to break loose. He ended up trapped between gigantic roots of a huge tree. Damn it, he warned the brat about those creatures with black blood! The outskirts of the forest where lilies grew must have been their battle-field. They usually fought a lot.

Voldemort rammed through the roots and shrieked loudly. The root wrapped around his neck began strangling him. The Dark Lord dipped his hand into his pocket but the wand was missing. Of course.

"Fuck!" he cursed. The pressure on his throat strengthened.

Then the sun came up, sending its jolts through the trunk of the tree. Soon the roots got scorching-hot. Things hadn't budged an inch for the Dark Lord.

He shut his eyes to concentrate. When he opened them, a tiny man clad in ancient armor was flitting in front of him. Light transparent wings moved so fast it seemed magical shimmering was holding the man in the air. He was like a fairytale come alive. Not for the first time Voldemort was mentally back in his childhood.

"Lord Voldemort", the creature spoke; its voice sounded unnaturally deep fro its feeble body.

"And you are –?" Voldemort wanted to know.

"I am the ruler of these lands. You are in my realm. It has been long since a wizard had set his foot on my territory. It should always be like that".

"Yes, I was just about to leave", Voldemort said, nor bothering to hide his sarcasm.

"You shall remain here as you are", the king went on. He ignored Voldemort's taunt; moreover, his voice was emotionless and cool as if he were a winding toy. "Soon we shall have your young companion as well. We do not tolerate intruders".

Voldemort lost his patience and called the fleeing figure some names. Of course, it made no sense but at least, he cooled off a bit.

By nightfall Voldemort had ceased any attempts to free himself. Absolute apathy swept over him. He was hanging on the roots like a deformed bag of flour. No hope for salvation. It was stupid to die like this. He wanted to believe he was immortal, immune to any sort of magic, but you could never tell precisely when it concerned faery.

"_Tom Marvolo Riddle!" he heard vividly. The roots dissolved before his blurred eye-sight. He found himself in a room with grey walls. Someone familiar, a skinny woman with discolored hair and sharp features, was towering over him. Despite her lean complexion she seemed huge. "Explain yourself!"_

_Tom was eight; he had just set a snake on Robbie Wilson. Of course, the git started telling tales about him. So Tom was tête-à-tête with Mrs Cole, the matron of the orphanage, who was going to punish him._

_Tom tugged on his tunic. He shouldn't fret! No-no, he was n o t a f r a i d. His eyes flashed._

_Mrs Cole's lips were moving but Tom couldn't distinguish the words. He stood before her (amazing how huge she seemed, that drastic skeleton of a woman!), trying to control his fear. It washed over him and he imagined that he was a small sea, a beautiful restless sea, and Mrs Cole was a typhoon that troubled it. _

"_Tom!"_ a voice called before Voldemort had gotten completely stuck in his reverie.

Scarlet eyes flashed sparks of fire. The boy… He found him!

"What the hell are you doing here?" Voldemort demanded in a muffled voice.

Hanging on the outside of the root prison, Potter replied:

"Came to rescue you, why?"

_Rescue!_ Voldemort sneered at the word. While Potter was striving to pry the roots loose, he filled him in on account of faery. The boy paled a few shades but abstained from any comments. He was pushy, this uncanny son of James and Lily Potter.

Harry's hands came away stained with blood. Thorns!

"Shit!" Potter blurted out. "What mess have I gotten myself into?"

The roots started moving. Slowly, scarcely at first, they gave in. Voldemort inhaled, choking on the pollen, but he could breathe again. Freedom was _near_.

"You didn't have to. You're going to get yourself killed, little idiot!"

"Nope, the honor's yours!"

Voldemort crawled out of his prison and looked around moodily. The tree was stuck in a grass ocean in the middle of a large valley beneath the yellowish sky. Lots of open space, no places to hide in case of pursuit.

Harry tugged on his sleeve. The Dark Lord leaned into him, and the boy scorched his lips with a fierce kiss. Feverishly Voldemort kissed back, drowning in this sensation. Why was it so exciting?..

"We should find their keep", he said.

"What?" Harry exclaimed. "To go where they live? Where there is _a lot_ of them? No, thank you!"

"They have your wand. I want it back".

"Screw the wand! We must run the hell out of here!"

Potter's cheeks turned red. He grabbed Voldemort by the forearm and eyed him with despair.

"It's the only wand we've got left!" the Dark Lord snapped.

That was an argument. Aim: wand. At stake: their lives (as always, actually). Why Harry couldn't say 'no' firmly: 'it was the only wand they had left!' Harry gnashed his teeth, then nodded abruptly.

They found the keep after about five hours of aimless wandering. Exhausted and thirsty, Harry eyed small pools of clear blue water splattered between tiny castles and ebony towers in dismay. Lilac bushes blossomed in miniature orchards. The keep itself was standing on a high foundation on a small island surrounded by strawberry-colored river. Everything looked so miniscule and innocent, though Voldemort knew better. These doll-like villages harboured frightful secrets.

"Where do they keep the wand, do you think?" Harry whispered. "It'll hardly squeeze inside the main castle".

"Then it's not _in_ the castle!", Voldemort reacted immediately.

A sprinkle of windows came alight miles off around the villages. Golden squares were cut in the haze, and tiny figures cropped up behind them. Identical men showed up by the river bank and dropped a heavy drawbridge.

Voldemort spotted 'His elfin Lordship'. The faery was riding an overgrown dragonfly.

"Their _king_", he spat.

"Can't we just smash the whole set?" Potter suggested. "It looks easy enough".

"Hold your breath".

"'Scuse me?"

"You never know what you'll be breathing in. Now come on!"

Trying hard no to breathe, Harry pushed through the dense air. The faery's parade continued. Every move was so polished it gave the impression these galas happened every night. His Lordship rose his miniscule gloved hand, waved and smiled graciously and rode on. His minions strolled after him. Once again Voldemort thought it was some kind of a doll-house.

"There!" Harry blurted out.

His wand was erected on a small pedestal decorated with flower garlands. A wee revolving blade was drawing near it.

"Correct me if I'm wrong", Harry muttered, "do they plan to saw it up?"

Voldemort shut his mouth with his hand. The boy talked too much!

Unfortunately, too loud as well. His husky voice swept through the faery infantry. Tens of little heads turned round, and tens of arrows fell in hard rain in Harry's direction.

"Don't let them touch you!" the older wizard shouted. "It's poison!"

Harry demurred. He had a weapon to fight back – but was it right to use it now in front of the wand's legitimate owner?

After a series of fraudulent moves Voldemort got hold of the wand. They ran, pursued by the faery. The sky darkened because of their myriads. Arrows and spears were flying amidst the clouds, ripping them apart.

A party of ten soldiers beat the wand out of Voldemort's hand. Scowling, they prepared to attack.

A solemn voice floated above the valley: "Cease them!"

It was the king on his dragonfly. Harry clenched his teeth. 'Sometimes a simple charm is enough to do them in. Come on, Potter, think!' A few years ago Hermione got rid of a flock of Cornish pixies by using a simple 'Immobilus' charm. It might have worked here as well.

Harry grabbed Voldemort's wand. Its tip blazed red. Instead of freezing the tiny creatures burst in flames, yelling and wailing, and carbonized. Voldemort glared in shock at the pile of ashes that used to be the Lordship and his suite. Then his eyes turned to Harry. He ended up in front of the boy, his wand pointed at Potter's throat, in a blink of an eye.


	8. The Antidote That Got Me By

**Title**: "You Set My Soul Alight"

**Author**: Shaitanah

**Rating**: R

**Timeline**: post-HBP

**Summary**: Do you really want freedom when it is finally at hand? Or would you rather settle for a golden cage if the one you love is locked up with you and you have eternity together? Please R&R!

**Disclaimer**: Everything belongs to J.K. Rowling.

**A/N**: Surprise! I decided to update a day earlier because I will probably be a bit busy over the week-end. Thank you for your wonderful reviews. There's an important message waiting for you at the bottom of the page. Please consider it! Thanks! Enjoy!

**A/N2**: The quote comes from 'Cold' by _Crossfade_.

* * *

**Chapter 8**

**THE ANTIDOTE THAT GOT ME BY**

"Where did you get it?!" Voldemort roared. "It's _my_ wand, you little bastard! You tricked me!!!"

"No!" Air was slipping away. Tears burned in Harry's eyes. "I fixed it!"

Voldemort retreated, taken aback. "You what?"

'That's why you left it behind", Harry remarked slyly. "You didn't think I could use it. Stop underestimating me!"

He whirled in place and thrust his leg forward. The wand slipped out of Voldemort's grip. He cursed angrily.

"You should have killed me when you still had your chance!" Harry cried.

Voldemort picked the wand up. He aimed a curse at the boy and lunged forward. It was a fraudulent move: the boy drew back and was caught off guard by the Dark Lord's next action. He knocked Harry off his feet. The boy recoiled.

"It seems to me that you enjoy fighting me!" Voldemort sneered. "Why don't you give me the real battle then?"

"I'm not sure about that", Harry Potter, the real bane of his existence, replied sardonically. "Maybe that's because you prefer sending your brainless minions after me to fighting yourself? All those talks: 'do it yourself!', 'you should never be afraid of taking chances'… You're nothing more than a mindless coward!"

A hard blow in the face cut his tirade short. Harry yelped, then held his bleeding nose. He clutched the wand tightly in his grip. Not even Death could have snatched it away.

He was gulping blood, shivering and feeling very cold and broken.

Voldemort stood erect and said in a low, menacing voice: "Don't you dare say something like that again. I was never afraid of dirty work, Potter. Unlike your precious Dumbledore who prefers to send his disciples to do it for him".

They were still at daggers drawn with each other when they found a place for a halt. It was a grim part of the valley, completely bald, nothing but grey stone. Harry tossed and turned on the hard ground sleeplessly. This time it felt nothing like a cozy bed.

Voldemort, on a contrary, had made himself quite comfortable. He was lying a few meters away, his back turned on Harry. The boy murmured shyly:

"Tom… Hey, Tom!"

"Don't call me that", Voldemort gave an icy reply.

"Still mad at me?"

"Mad at you? Naw, why would _I_ be _mad_ at _you_?"

Harry moved a bit closer. Voldemort shifted and looked at him. His face was obscured by shadows; only flaming red eyes shone out of the dark. Harry knew at once what it was. It was love, a forbidden feeling that overtook him finally. It affected him the way contaminated blood transfused to a sick person does, producing sepsis. It was wrong – but it filled his lungs with oxygen, and he could breathe, and he wanted to live forever, to live with Voldemort, to simply _be_. He was back to the way he once was: not a soldier, not an avenger, a mere lucky boy who wanted to taste life untouched by the decay of glory and responsibilities. It was a world made of glass, so fragile, so beautiful. Harry wanted to touch it but he was afraid.

"You should have been in Slytherin, Potter", the Dark Lord remarked coolly.

Harry grinned. "I almost was".

"What happened?"

"I asked the Sorting Hat to put me anywhere but in Slytherin".

Voldemort looked at him, quite amused. 'Asked' the Sorting Hat, huh? The boy was a little freak of nature, indeed. He wanted to know why.

"I heard you were in Slytherin", Potter shrugged. His face glowed like marble in the light of new moon that sailed out of the clouds.

The silver tide, the essence of that flat round whiteness amidst the black cushions of gas, gushed forward and flooded the valley. Voldemort breathed the softness of the breeze in. tiny yellow dots sparkled above. The wizard hissed a gentle song in Parseltongue, back in those dawning days of his life when garden snakes were his only company. They appeared once or twice a week and sang lullabies to the loner who understood their fabulous and complicated language. It didn't bother Tom there shouldn't have been any snakes in London. They came to him, and only to him.

Potter stared at him, eye-brows knitted like a roof of a tiny house, mouth half-opened.

"It's a song", Voldemort explained. "Names of stars the way snakes call them".

"Didn't know you were so romantic", Harry smirked and barely had enough time to dodge a chunk of rock sent flying in his direction.

"Shut up", Voldemort said plainly.

Harry crept closer and put his head on Voldemort's chest. He could hear his heartbeat, that magical sound of the clock working inside the Dark Lord, indicating he was a live man, not a nightmare deprived of flesh.

* * *

Harry woke up when morning chill sent shivers down his body. He curled up on the ground where grass had grown during the night. Its juicy blades were trampled down where Voldemort had lain.

Alarmed by his absence, Harry jumped up. Fortunately, the Dark Lord was near. Harry walked up to him and smiled.

"Hey!"

"You are such a sleepyhead!" Voldemort laughed. "Good morning!"

A river purled by the hill. Tender white horses of foam were running along its narrow greyish-blue ribbon. Fleecy clouds adorned the sky.

"What are you doing?" Harry asked. Some new, strange playfulness appeared in his tone.

"Listening. The winds speak".

"What about?"

"The portal. It's not that far now. We should reach it by nightfall if we set out now".

Harry pursed his lips. Freedom was so close. So _damn close!_

They moved down by the river. The world was as quiet and serene as it had always been. Harry did not know how much had passed. Frankly speaking, he didn't care.

He started another conversation in desperate wish to distract himself from dismal thoughts. This time it dealt with world domination and general question was, by tradition, 'why?'.

"To rule, of course!" Voldemort said, looking at Potter as if the boy were insane. "Power is everything!"

In truth, he didn't really need it. The world could go down the toilet – Voldemort couldn't care less! He didn't even need the Potter-brat anymore. But dreams of power, prosperity and fame were the main means to escape the dull reality of his youth, a special antidote prepared specifically against Dumbledore's nuisancy.

"It's every man's Quest. I assume you have a Quest, Potter".

Harry giggled. "Yeah, to get rid of you".

Sun blazed scorching-white in the bluish abyss. Its merciless rays fell to the ground, sucking life out of it. Grass burnt out and faded, blown away by the hot dry wind. The river expired. The travelers descended into its empty bed and went on in moody silence. Harry thought he could never get used to how instant the changes were.

"Our power makes us unique. Never forget it. We are not like _them_", Voldemort said thoughtfully. "Weren't you happy when you knew you were different?"

"That was before Hagrid told me you murdered my parents. And before I knew I had to risk my life over and over again because you wanted to finish the job!"

Harry regretted having said that as soon as the words left his lips. It was a topic of constant exasperation – and he wanted to annoy his companion no longer. Come to think of it, he didn't even want to talk. Silence was perfect. Silence was absolute.

Not knowing that about each other, both of them thought of their plans, mixed up and ruined by those strange feelings they now had for each other. Voldemort forbade himself to think about the future. There was _no_ future! If he gave up his attempts to kill the boy or seduce him to the Dark Side _now_, it didn't mean he'd stop in _the real world_.

Harry's thoughts mirrored those of the Dark Lord. Pointless, it was absolutely pointless.

At the end of the river Harry saw a high square shimmering faintly. Could it be–? He froze inside. So quickly…

"Tom…" he whispered quietly. His voice refused to obey him, so he had to repeat the name louder.

"Don't call–", Voldemort started saying. Harry gripped his forearm and made him halt.

"There! Is it–?"

"Yes!" It was the first time he saw the wizard's face brighten into a full grin. "It is the portal!"

Harry's face darkened. His emerald eyes became intense green – the color of the forest after heavy rain.

"Oh…" he murmured. "Great".

But the harder he tried to squeeze some enthusiasm in his voice, the more desperate it became.

* * *

**Okay, the fairytale ends next week! Unfortunately, nothing lasts forever, Harry and Voldemort know it all too well. Don't forget to tell me what you think. Don't hesitate to press that little review button at the bottom of the page. Thanksss! ;)**


	9. The Show Must Go On

**Title**: "You Set My Soul Alight"

**Author**: Shaitanah

**Rating**: R

**Timeline**: post-HBP

**Summary**: It is the end. Please R&R!

**Disclaimer**: Everything belongs to J.K. Rowling.

**A/N**: Well, guys, this is the finale. Thank you so much for reading it, it's currently the most popular story of mine. I've come to be proud of it – because of you! Remember I said I didn't like it? Now I do! ;) Thank you all so much! I'm planning to write another fic soon. Actually if you like my style, keep an eye on my new LJ archive **http// istne pieklo. livejournal. com** Enjoy!

The quote belongs to _Queen_.

* * *

**Chapter 9**

**THE SHOW MUST GO ON**

Night fell swiftly, extinguishing even starlight. Harry's eyes, unaccustomed to such dense, ink darkness, could scarcely see anything beyond the reach of pale flames of campfire. Its soft rattling filled his soul with sadness. It might have been the last time they heard this sound. The last time they shared a meal together. The last time he heard an insult from Voldemort for having called him 'Tom'. The last time he fell asleep by his side and woke up, dreading he would be gone.

Too many of those precious and painful 'last times'.

The portal would not give in lightly. They had to work on it like they did to break the force-field in the vacuum. It seemed to have been so long ago. Had it happened at all?

By the end of the day Harry's neck ached immensely. They still had each other's wands and something gave Harry the impression they would till the very end. Voldemort's wand to kill Him-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named; Harry's want to get rid of The Boy Who Lived. Such a funny coincidence.

"Get up!" Voldemort said when he noticed the boy's limp body lying by the fire. Harry inhaled the melting heat of coals and said:

"Why? Can't it wait till morning?"

"No, it can't! Now get up!" Voldemort's tough hand grabbed Harry by the collar and forced him on his feet. Harry staggered but managed to stay up. He flashed Voldemort a dirty look and kept working silently.

Finally the portal was willing to let them through. Potter's heart sank. Every small detail of this world seemed so good, so true, so perfect. Harry bit his lip in anguish. He just couldn't go now. Not where the war raged and his friend fell cut down by magical fire. Not where eternal gloom ruled, where he would never know love again.

Harry's perception hadn't contacted the illusive image of Tom Riddle in Voldemort's dreams. He wondered briefly why. Because his Tom was here, by his side. He wouldn't let him go now…

"You wanted to know what it was between me and your parents", Voldemort said.

Harry turned his head instantly. His scar was bare once again, shimmering under the Dark Lord's blank gaze.

"It's alright if you don't want to tell me", he whispered.

"I offered James to work for me. He refused. It's as simple as that".

Harry pondered what he'd just heard. He had a guess that James had been marked for death for being a pureblood who gave the Dark Lord a finger – but to hear it from You-Know-Who himself was… It was just too much!

"And my mother?" he asked timidly. Voldemort looked away. "You said she didn't have to die".

She was a brave one, Lily Potter. I must admit the bitch earned my respect by what she'd done".

Spoken fast, in a low, emotionless voice, it startled Harry – the hurt, the regret, the insult that made the boy's blood boil. He wanted to fire back but muffled laughter came through his rounded lips.

In the meantime, Voldemort added: "She had the will to live but she scarificed herself for you. So unlike my own mother. She wouldn't even stay alive for me".

"She was broken. I'm not trying to justify her. It's just… Every opinion counts. That's what Dumbledore taught me well enough".

"Dumbledore!" Voldemort snorted. He sprang up and paced angrily in front of Harry. "Albus fucking Dumbledore! You've gotta be kidding me!"

Potter gulped nervously. The Dark Lord scowled at him:

"Don't try to redeem me, Harry! I've had enough of Saint Dumbledore's crap while still at school!"

Harry shut his eyes. The fire carried on rattling softly, soothing his wound up nerves.

"What will happen to us? You know, when we get back and–".

"That is _if_ we get back!" Voldemort corrected hastily as if it should have been said regardless. "I don't know. _This_ can't go on".

"Oh… yes. You're right. The _show_ must go on".

* * *

Night swept past them swiftly. Harry couldn't get any sleep. He just sat by the fading fire, inhaling the warmth before it would pass, carried away by cool breeze. He had never felt lonelier or more confused.

"Tom", he whispered in a husky voice. "Tom, I don't want to lose you".

He knelt before the sleeping Voldemort and shook him fiercely.

"Tom, you hear me!? I don't want to go back! I don't want to start it all over!"

_-You silly boy!-_ Voldemort hissed in Parseltongue. _–Sh-sh-shut up! Shut up!-_

"No! I won't! I won't go back! It's your goddamn fault! You started it, you ruined my life! It wasn't the Prophecy that had chosen me, it wasn't Dumbledore! It was you! You fucking started it!"

Tears splashed from his eyes. Uncontrollable sobbing grew into loud wailing. Harry loathed himself for it (he was acting very much like Moaning Myrtle!) but he couldn't stop for all the treasures in the world. His voice cheated on him.

Voldemort threw his arms around Harry's quivering body and whispered comforting words in his ear. The youth could not distinguish the meaning but he was grateful, no matter what.

The fever of hysteria subsided. Harry wiped his face (with the sleeve of Voldemort's robe to the latter's discontent) and suppressed his tremor.

"I want to stay here. With you".

Voldemort frowned. "It's a dream, Harry. It will not last".

"Then make it last!"

The voice that uttered it was so childish, so touching, so sweet. Voldemort kept quiet. To say 'no' meant to deny he was all-powerful. To agree meant to accept Potter's naïve faith in that they _had_ a future.

"It does not do to dwell on dreams", he drew out thoughtfully. Harry tensed in his arms, having recognized the Headmaster's words.

Funny how it turned out. Dumbledore was gone – yet he remained, a painful shadow somewhere on the peryphery of all those events. 'Albus Dumbledore', Voldemort smirked, 'always and forever!'

He rocked Potter to sleep. Dreams were beautiful but they were never meant to last.

* * *

Morning light blinked through the thin layer of clouds. Harry yawned and opened one eye to make sure he was still in the dreamworld. The plain was vibrant green, laid before him like a giant tablecloth. The boy rose to his feet. His heart grew cold. No way he could force Tom to understand!

"Time to go", Voldemort's voice sounded extremely calm.

"It's always hard to make a choice!" Harry uttered breathlessly before the shimmering window of pale golden light, their door to freedom. "I beg you, make the right one".

His hand rested on Voldemort's forearm. He eyed him passionately though intuition told him his love was doomed.

Love…

Harry froze. The second time he admetted his true feelings. Not for the phantom from his dreams (that damnable infatuation that tormented him ever since the Headmaster began 'teaching' him Voldemort's history) but for this solid shape of flesh and blood… _his_ blood, Harry's. They were kin, they were soulmates now in this new life that Voldemort had created for both of them.

Harry wondered if Voldemort felt the same.

The Dark Lord was looking through him. Horizon glowed claret-color.

"Tom", Harry called.

"Let's go", Voldemort replied.

So they were past the point of no return.

* * *

Harry came to his senses all of a sudden. He was sprawled on the burnt ground, surrounded by corpses. Their foul stench cloyed his nostrils. His stomach rebelled against such violence. Potter bent over and threw up.

What the fuck happened? He compressed his temples and growled in pain.

Oh, right! Voldemort's curse hit him but couldn't kill him – _again_.

Wind howled over the field, bringing a high-pitched cry with it, "Harry!!!"

A woman was screaming. The youth got up, trembling.

"Hermione! Over here!"

Hermione's face was smeared with blood. She gripped his shoulder, half-laughing, half-gasping shakily.

"We thought we died!"

"Where's Ginny? Is she–?"

"She's with Ron. The twins–". Hermione paused. "They're badly hurt. They probably won't make it".

Harry balled his fists with dumb solution. "Nobody's gonna die anymore".

"It's _him_", Hermione whispered as she glimpsed the Dark Lord's intimidating shape make its way through the shadows. Black robes billowed in the wind.

Hermione moved forward. Weird but Harry found no trace of hate in his heart.

"No", he held her back. "He's mine".

They raised their wands simultaneously. Harry frowned. He felt dizzy and exhausted as if…

The wand felt strange in his grasp. He opened his fist and saw an elegant, elaborate handle. That was not _his_ wand!

The memories came back to him.

"Tom", he whispered, and Voldemort recognized him, too.

"Harry! What are you waiting for?" Hermione cried.

He pushed her away (for her own sake! She should have stayed alive for Ron, for Ginny, for everyone… she was good, so unlike him!) and jumped up. Voldemort sprang forward. Their wands clashed like a pair of sabers before they could fire a curse. Bright flashes colored the sky above Hermione. Breathless, she observed the battle.

Voldemort's breath scorched Potter's cheek.

"Tom", Harry whispered. Cought by the wind, the words ceased to be.

"Don't call me that", Voldemort replied, brushing his lips over the boy's lips.

"Harry!" Hermione's voice broke through. "What are you doing!?"

Once again the enemies confronted each other. Hexes whistled in the wind.

"It has to be done!" Hermione yelled at the top of her lungs.

Why did he linger? Why did he hesitate?

She wanted to rise but she twisted her ankle when Harry knocked her off her feet. The wand rolled out of her hand and Hermione could not reach it.

Harry had a distinct though: 'This ends now'.

They threw their wands up and…

* * *

Glaciers melting in the dead of night

And the superstars sucked into the supermassive.

(You set my soul alight)

_Muse. 'Supermassive Black Hole'

* * *

_

**The end**

**Okay, this is it! The story ends here and now. I suspect most of you will probably want to kill me for such an ending, but I won't change my mind! ;) Don't forget to tell me what you think!**


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